Pink Lemonade
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: John enjoys the view. His new jobs has a few perks, including surveying the red head sunning herself in that tiny polka dotted bathing suit. Established John/Claire, after high school.


John Bender had been working since the day after he turned fourteen. He'd never been able to hold a job. The longest, his first, at the convenience store just across from the railroad tracks, had lasted until he turned sixteen. He'd been fired once the manager had caught on to his propensity for free fountain drinks and stealing cartons of cigarettes. Then there was the grocery store, the record store, the mechanics garage. It was never just one thing that kept him jumping job to job. Mostly, it was his need for a good toke during work hours. Now and then it had been his own attitude and inability to put up with bullshit. Whatever the case, he needed cigs, dope, food, and that rusty red, rotted-out truck his neighbor was selling.

The summer brought another job change, and not one that was entirely welcomed. Mowing grass, weed-eating, and garden pruning were not among John's talents or interests. Regardless, it paid good, got him out of the house, and the boss, a plump aging man named Jimmy, said nothing when he'd park the mower and take a smoke break, and he even let him pick the radio station of his choice while they worked.

Fergueson and Brown Lawn Services didn't usually cater to those on John's stomping ground. Those people pushed their own mowers, or else let the grass grow knee-high and die out in brown and yellow patches (like his own yard). Rather, they tended to yards of the upper-class of Shermer, where the communities were gated and the lamp posts were stylized.

This afternoon, he and Jimmy chugged towards an address John was all too familiar with. 102 St. James Avenue.

As they pulled the trailer up onto the clean cement driveway, John smirked up at the big white and red brick structure. Its arched windows, curtained with lacey swaths provided promise of a glimpse of a certain red head.

Jim helped him to unload the ride-on mower and retreated to the backyard to trim the bushes.

Already, the summer heat had his long dark hair plastered against his neck when he revved the motor. Instead of his usual loose attire, he'd donned a plain blue t-shirt and the rattiest jeans he owned, nearly threadbare. He hated short sleeves, and though he managed to get through several yards wearing a long sleeved shirt earlier in May, the heat eventually got to him and he'd made the sacrifice. Jimmy never said anything about the burn at the crook of his arm or any of the other dull scars. John was secretly grateful that that particular pact went unmentioned between the two of them.

He poked the headphones of his Walkman in and cranked the volume. Claire had knit together a mix tape for him as a present. He had pretended to hate it. It was riddled with Hall & Oates, the Smiths, and the Eurythmics. He'd overlook the Fiction Factory song, because after all, that had been their 'song' at the prom just a month ago. Her music was lame, and not at all his taste. But it was so utterly her that he put up with it. Over and over, until the tape tangled.

The mower smoothed over the grass, spraying the clippings out in a fan of green behind him. Jim was lucky to have gotten this new, fancy machine from another service in the area that had closed down. It had been Jim's bargaining skills that brought the price down, and John's immense delight that it had worked. Pushing mowers sucked. This cut the time in half, especially on large acreage like this.

He'd never understand the Yard-of-the-month awards that richies were so infatuated with. It was just another flash, another way to show off the erection of money and privilege. The irony of it all was that the businessmen and bankers who lived in these neighborhoods weren't the ones out here slaving in the sweltering July heat. They were all cozy and cool in their offices downtown. He snorted at the thought that maybe it wasn't his social class that took advantage of handouts.

He rounded the corner at the fence, turning the mower back towards the house.

And there she was. The Princess had arrived.

He grinned at her, though her back was turned. She'd planted a lawn chair near the front walk and was currently unfolding a neon-colored beach towel to drape over it. She wore a too-large t-shirt that hung from one shoulder and tiny cotton shorts. He chewed his lip, leaning just a little too hard on the gas.

He passed her, not even glancing up, continuing on his straight path towards the driveway. Her blue BMW was parked by the garage, glinting in the sun. Damn, he needed that truck. He couldn't keep letting her tote him on dates in that swanky thing. It just didn't sit right with him.

When he turned the corner, his eyes fell on her again. This time, when he took in her current attire and position, he floored it and the mower jumped.

She laughed, watching him, peeking up over her dark shades. She'd shed the t-shirt and shorts, now reclined in the lawn chair in a pale-pink two-piece bikini with black polka dots.

He nodded in her direction in acknowledgement, trying not to look too excited. But she saw right through it when she pushed her glasses higher and leaned back, letting one leg hitch up, bending her knee just slightly so her foot rested near the opposite calf.

What a tease.

She and all that pretty porcelain skin on display for the whole neighborhood, and him. Mainly just him.

He kept staring even as he mowed past, licking his lips at the freckles on her arms and shoulders.

He continued on, clipping towards the fence again. His chick was laid out in an itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie polka dot bikini, and he was here on business. The angst of it all.

He rounded towards her again. This time he caught her with a martini glass in hand, pink translucent liquid inside, garnished with an umbrella and all.

She sipped, arching her eyebrows at him when he neared her chair. He pointed two fingers at himself and back at her teasingly, indicating he was watching her. Her head arched back in laughter. She was too adorable.

He wondered briefly just what was in that glass. It thrilled him to think it was some fruity concoction, brewed up from her mother's liquor cabinet.

Both of them, by now, had experienced the blunt of both their parents' rage. She'd never been to his house, nor was she ever permitted to. He wouldn't have it. But he'd shown up one night, desperate and bleeding, and she'd snuck him in. When her mother exploded on her, they'd been watching MTV in her bedroom when she burst in, three sheets to the wind and ordering Claire to come clean such-and-such or find this-or-that. She'd obliged, but John soon heard the two ladies caught in an argument, shouting over one another. Claire returned to the room crying and he'd suggested they take a drive. He'd driven her to the highest point that overlooked the city lights, and she'd spilled her guts until well past eleven o'clock, on a school night.

When he turned the corner against the driveway, rounding back towards her, she was standing, flouncing over to him, long lean legs and all. He grinned devilishly.

The motor chugged and huffed, even when he reached a full stop. But he didn't mind if it meant Claire had to lean close to his ear to be heard.

"I like your new wheels," she said loudly.

He couldn't help but reach out a hand for her waist, but she swatted him away. "Can I ride?" she asked.

Oh, hell.

He motioned for her to bring her ear close and she did. "I don't know. My boss might have a problem with that."

Two could play at her game.

She planted her hands on her hips and leaned in again. "Your boss is out back getting hounded by my daddy about siphoning leaves out of the pool. You're safe."

Safe was the very last thing he was.

His lips neared her ear again. "Least its not me getting cut up by ol' Papa Standish. Hop on."

She smiled and swung a leg over the seat. He scooted back. The worn yellow seat wasn't nearly big enough for two, but they managed.

His hands fell over hers on the wheel. He watched in delight when she glanced over her shoulder at him, lips parted and eyes hooded.

"You steer," he said, pulling the brake free.

"What are you gonna do?" she asked.

"I'll push the gas." He smirked, easing his fingers just under the thin strap of fabric at her middle back. "And enjoy the view."

She flushed, from her ears to her toes.

He pumped the gas and she jumped with a squeal.

She kept the mower in line with his original rows, following the path he'd already mowed. He was too busy counting the freckles on her shoulders and neck to pay attention to much else.

One hand reached down to pinch her calf. "You're a tease, you know that?" he whispered into her ear, certain that she'd heard, even at the loud buzz of the motor.

She glanced back just briefly. "Takes one to know one," she accused and he growled playfully in her ear, making her laugh.

His fingers, ungloved for once, tapped along her ribcage, smoothed down her spine. She leaned back against him, allowing his hand to splay over her back, sandwiched between them.

"If I get fired, its your fault," he said.

"Its my yard," she quipped.

Damn she was good. She'd learned how to play his game quickly.

Her bright red hair was even more violent in the sunlight, and tickled his nose. It was slightly damp with sweat, and he thought briefly if it was possible for even her sweat to smell like flowers.

His hand instinctively reached up to the diamond in his left ear, twisting it to remind him that it was still there. He let himself smile, this time not wryly or lasciviously.

He'd never tell her, but he felt lucky. He'd been at the brink, and she'd pulled him back. No one had known, no one had seen or thought to spare a second glance. But she had worked her magic without even knowing it.

They all had. All five of them. They found one another at their lowest points, and learned exactly how similar they were.

When his reverie broke, she was staring over her shoulder at him.

She'd caught him.

-O-O-O-

After manicuring the bushes at the front of the yard and re-mulching the flower beds, Jim had let him off the hook. He slapped two fifties in his hand, loaded up the mower and left, though not without a glance towards Claire, who stood under the porch, and throwing his employee a wink.

Now they both sat cross-legged on Claire's trampoline in the backyard, facing one another. The evening sun set a cool shadow against Claire's pinked skin and curly hair. She'd changed, wearing a sleeveless white blouse tucked into denim shorts. She was shoeless and he noticed her toes were painted a shade of nauseating pink.

He watched them curl as she lifted her martini glass to her lips.

"What's in there?' he asked, hoping he'd been right.

"Pink lemonade," she answered.

"No really."

"Pink lemonade!" she implored with a giggle.

"Let me taste it." He smirked, leaning forward to peer down into her glass and sniff.

"John!"

"I just want to know!" he said, planting his fingers around the rim.

"I told you!"

He pried the glass from her hand and sipped the sugary sweet liquid. He'd never had a drink from a martini glass, much less one that was probably made of crystal. There was no familiar sting when he swallowed and he grinned up at her. Princess.

She just shrugged, her plump lips smirking, and leaned forward to planting her lips to his. The martini glass fell soundlessly into the grass, forgotten.

He leaned back against the surface of the trampoline, letting her knees hitch up to her hips and her fingers drift over his cheeks. She wasn't often this confident. Especially not in the backyard of her parent's mansion. He let her take the lead, hooking his hands at her lower back.

"You smell," she accused before leaning back in.

He just hummed and fingered the pearly buttons on the front of her blouse.

She pulled back, laying down by his side, tucking herself close. Her red curls spilled into his face when she gazed up at the purple and pink clouds above. He took a long, audible whiff as his gaze followed hers.

"I like your new job," she said softly.

He chuckled. "Yep. Perk of it is that I get to do my rounds through Glennwood Estates every second Monday." He pinched her waist.

"Oh, and not seeing your lovely girlfriend in a bikini in her front yard?"

He considered with an indecisive hum. "That's ok too, I guess."

They grew quiet. He watched the clouds float by, fingers toying with the ends of her hair.

"Hey, listen. When fall comes…"

"John, don't…" she breathed, not wanting to hear the same speech. She'd be enrolling at the university in Chicago, and he'd be working. She hadn't exactly planned that far ahead, and she was certain that the end was coming soon. They'd have separate paths, after all. They always had, however much they tried to ignore it and make them merge.

"No, just shut up and listen," he snapped.

She quieted, bending her head down against his chest.

"I'll get another job in the city…and I was going to get an apartment. I was thinking…maybe if you wanted to…"

He was second guessing. This was a shit idea and he should've never said anything. He couldn't drop the shovel now. He'd have to dig the hole.

"I want to get an apartment…with you," he blurted.

She was quiet a long time before she propped herself up on one shoulder. "Really?"

He nodded, glancing away.

She traced the vein in his arm gently and he felt his blood pump faster. "I do too," she said simply.

Instead of waiting for his answer, she bent down, pressing her lips to his. He tugged her closer, hooking his hands around her elbows that held her up above him.

It was finalized.

Before he could dare to deepen the kiss, a call from the back door broke their kiss. "Claire!" her mother called.

She looked up, flushed and flinging her red curls out of her eyes. She looked suddenly like a deer in the headlights, the dusk sky and landscape lights giving her face a glow. Every time John saw Margaret Standish, she looked older, however young she tried to make herself look. It only had the opposite effect. She was dressed like Jackie O in a neat skirt and jacket, pearls hooked around her neck.

"Is he staying for dinner?" Mrs. Standish peered through the dim light at John, still flat against the trampoline. He didn't miss the intonation in her voice when she addressed him. He didn't remember her ever saying his first name.

He looked up at Claire, wrinkled his nose and nodded.

Making Claire's parents uncomfortable had become a pastime that he enjoyed and was exceedingly good at.

She grinned down at him before looking back at her mother. "Yeah, Mom. Thanks."

Mrs. Standish slipped back inside. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the window curtains pulled aside.

Brashly, Claire bent to kiss him again. "She doesn't care," she breathed against his lips. "She doesn't care enough to say anything. Like you said, having a bad-boy boyfriend works in my favor sometimes." She chewed her lip and stared down at him, eyes glittering.

"Glad to know that's all I'm good for," he teased.

She reached down, lacing their fingers and giving his hand a squeeze. "I love you," she said sincerely, and he believed it. He always believed it, even if he didn't let on.

She bent low and kissed him again before sliding off the edge of the springy surface.

He caught up with her, sliding his hand into hers just before they entered the back door.

Maybe he'd keep this job for a while.


End file.
